


What'd I Miss?

by Arwyn



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, due South
Genre: Angst and Humor, DSSS Treat, Fluff, M/M, Some Humor, Songfic, crack sort of?, i really have no idea what to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5558087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwyn/pseuds/Arwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Ray’s been humming and drumming all week. Well, I should clarify: he’s been humming and drumming his fingers even more than usual. And the tunes, what I can make of them out of his, shall we say, unique and creative singing voice, appear interesting enough.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But what I find somewhat more shocking is his sudden and, if I may be frank, rather more uncharacteristic interest in his own country’s history.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	What'd I Miss?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wagnetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagnetic/gifts).



> For the purposes of this work, let's pretend Hamilton came out a decade and a half earlier, while Fraser and Ray are both together and in Chicago.

Ray’s been humming and drumming all week. Well, I should clarify: he’s been humming and drumming his fingers even more than usual. It’s not unappealing; his energy, barely contained and loosely directed at the best of times, is not an insignificant part of his appeal. (Passive voice? Let me be more direct: why he appeals to _me_.) And the tunes, what I can make of them out of his, shall we say, unique and creative singing voice, appear interesting enough.

But what I find somewhat more shocking is his sudden and, if I may be frank, rather more uncharacteristic interest in his own country’s _history_.

We were driving back from interviewing Mrs du Motier about the missing pompadours on Monday. (Her wig collection was the envy of the American Midwest Midcentury Removable Hair Enthusiast Society, at least before the theft.) He was drumming on the steering wheel -- nothing unusual there. I was trying for a glimpse of the lake between the buildings and trees we were passing (too rapidly to be either safe or legal, but I was enjoying the companionable silence too much to start that argument up again), when, apropos of nothing I could determine, Ray declared, “That Jefferson was a real piece of work, huh?”

“Ray, that’s it!"

“Fraser, what -- I was talking about the _president_ , what the hell are you on about?”

I blinked. “Mrs du Motier’s Pomeranian, of course. Whose name, as I’m sure you noticed as it was embroidered on his collar--”

“ _What_ dog, there _was_ no dog, what are you--”

“--and clearly visible, if reversed, in the picture on the mantle visible in the mirror behind Mrs du Motier’s shoulder.”

“Oh _that_ dog, why didn’t _I_ think of that.”

“I’m sure you did, even if you weren’t quite conscious of it. Why else would you be thinking of the name Jefferson right now?”

“You’ll notice the name on a collar on a dead dog in a picture on a mantle you saw in a _mirror_ , but you don’t even know about --”

“The dog isn’t dead, Ray.”

“What?”

“Jefferson is alive.”

“I don’t want to know how you know that, do I?”

“I simply observed--”

“No means no, Fraser! Wait, but if the mutt’s alive, that means--”

“We know where the pompadours are!”

Which, of course, led us to turning around precipitously in the middle of North Broadway and the arrest, six hours later, of Mrs Frederick, her twin sons, and three Pomeranians (who were immediately sent to the veterinarian for emergency surgery to remove hair, and evidence, from their stomachs), and all thoughts of pop music and presidents were forgotten.

*****

Not for long, however.

I was shaving while Ray showered on Wednesday morning, the scent of Bay Rum and clean Ray leaving me feeling a warm sort of contentment in a way that has yet to become familiar. (He’d hummed and sang quietly throughout. What I could hear over the water made less than little sense -- Ray had never previously shown interest in either bestiality or corsetry.)

He opened the curtain and grabbed a towel, not wrapping it around himself but dropping it on his head, rubbing it roughly over his hair. I dragged my eyes in the mirror back up to my face before I cut myself.

“Hey, you think those guys--”

“Which guys?”

“--those guys, those guys, the, uh, starting, beginning, the fathers, you know--”

“The American Founding Fathers?”

“Yeah, them. You think any of ‘em were, uh. Sort of. Y’know. Like us?’

I blinked at him in the mirror while I rinsed the blade. Which us? Like us in which-- oh.

“Are you asking if any of the Founding Fathers were homosexual?”

“Hey!”

“Or bisexual?”

“Yeah. Uh. So, you think maybe? ‘Cause Hamilton and Burr, I dunno…”

He wrapped the towel around his waist; I took it off and used it to wipe my face free of shaving lather. (There’s no call to create more laundry than necessary.)

“There’s some interesting scholarship on that, actually. Perhaps later we can stop by the library.”

*****

(We do, though the librarian -- a new hire, it would appear, as she was as unknown to me as I, apparently, was to her -- glared at us as we entered at twenty minutes to close. Granted, our clothes were charred, but the smoke residue that clung to us wasn’t sufficient to damage the books. Nevertheless, I didn’t dally to browse as much as I do when Ray isn’t tugging on my sleeve -- only part of it falling off in his hand -- and nagging me to seek medical attention for my obviously minor burns.)

*****

“...In this I have succeeded, but I have done more. I have gratified my feelings, by lengthening out the only kind of intercourse now in my power with my friend. Adieu. Yours. A Hamilton”

“Wow. That’s really, uh.” 

“Quite.” 

“How come you never write me letters like that?” 

“Oh, well, if you wish me to,” and I started to get out of bed. I was caught by my waistband and found myself lying on my back, with a laughing Ray on top of me, mock-growling at me to nevermind, and then… well. 

It was a delightful evening, all told, if one low on further epistolary.

*****

Which brings us to tonight. We finally have a free evening. Ray turned off his cellular phone, and unplugged the apartment’s phone from the wall. He took Dief out for a walk, and bribed him (from what he believed was outside of my hearing, although, of course, it wasn’t) with a shameful quantity of baked goods to _leave us the hell alone for three hours, or else_. Finally, pizza in the oven (“No way, Fraser, if we do take out, you know you’re gonna smell some crime or another on Sandor’s stinky clothes and there will go the evening. We are not leaving this apartment until you’ve listened to this, so I’m not taking the risk.” “Do your associates often smell of crime, Ray?” I shan’t repeat his retort here.), we settle on the couch.

The opening notes start, and I admit I appreciate the rhythms, if I find the epithets of the first line somewhat questionable.

*****

Oh, but… oh.

*****

I see.

*****

_Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints, it just takes and it takes_

I feel Ray’s hand in mine, and I hold it tightly.

*****

At some point, Ray must have gotten up for a drink, and to turn the oven off. I glare at him for swallowing too loudly.

*****

_I don’t wanna fight, but I won’t apologize for doing what’s right_

Ray snorts; I elbow him in the ribs.

*****

_A place where even orphan immigrants can leave their fingerprints and rise up_

Oh.

*****

_Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?_

*****

“I… That was…”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“You gotta figure I mighta passed history, if, uh, if it had more stuff like this. Too big a dummy for books, gotta have stuff sung to me to get it, I guess.”

“Ray! That’s not--”

“Aw, c’mon, it’s fine, Fraser. Hey, it’s cool -- I’m doing alright, right? I got my own apartment, an easygoing pet, I got, well.” He squeezes my thigh. “I can do the job pretty good, most days. ‘Specially when I got a partner who’s good with the paperwork part.”

I settle back, relenting for the moment. Ray finishes his beer, puts it down on the coffee table, and leans back next to me on the couch, his arm on my shoulder to run his hand slowly through my hair. I never want to move again, and yet...

“...can we start it again?”

“You betcha.”

*****

I find myself humming frequently over the next few weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't quite manage the crossover my beta suggested for you, Wag, but I hope this is enjoyable for you anyway. Thank you so much for being you, and being in this fandom.


End file.
